The house at which Spargo and his companions presently drew up was an
old-fashioned place in the immediate vicinity of Waterloo Railway
Station--a plain-fronted, four-square erection, essentially
mid-Victorian in appearance, and suggestive, somehow, of the very early
days of railway travelling. Anything more in contrast with the modern
ideas of a hotel it would have been difficult to find in London, and
Ronald Breton said so as he and the others crossed the pavement.

"And yet a good many people used to favour this place on their way to
and from Southampton in the old days," remarked Rathbury. "And I
daresay that old travellers, coming back from the East after a good
many years' absence, still rush in here. You see, it's close to the
station, and travellers have a knack of walking into the nearest place
when they've a few thousand miles of steamboat and railway train behind
them. Look there, now!" They had crossed the threshold as the
detective spoke, and as they entered a square, heavily-furnished hall,
he made a sidelong motion of his head towards a bar on the left,
wherein stood or lounged a number of men who from their general
appearance, their slouched hats, and their bronzed faces appeared to be
Colonials, or at any rate to have spent a good part of their time
beneath Oriental skies. There was a murmur of tongues that had a
Colonial accent in it; an aroma of tobacco that suggested Sumatra and
Trichinopoly, and Rathbury wagged his head sagely. "Lay you anything
the dead man was a Colonial, Mr. Spargo," he remarked. "Well, now, I
suppose that's the landlord and landlady."

There was an office facing them, at the rear of the hall, and a man and
woman were regarding them from a box window which opened above a ledge
on which lay a register book. They were middle-aged folk: the man, a
fleshy, round-faced, somewhat pompous-looking individual, who might at
some time have been a butler; the woman a tall, spare-figured,
thin-featured, sharp-eyed person, who examined the newcomers with an
enquiring gaze. Rathbury went up to them with easy confidence.

"You the landlord of this house, sir?" he asked. "Mr. Walters? Just
so--and Mrs. Walters, I presume?"

"A little matter of business, Mr. Walters," replied Rathbury, pulling
out a card. "You'll see there who I am--Detective-Sergeant Rathbury, of
the Yard. This is Mr. Frank Spargo, a newspaper man; this is Mr. Ronald
Breton, a barrister."

The landlady, hearing their names and description, pointed to a side
door, and signed Rathbury and his companions to pass through. Obeying
her pointed finger, they found themselves in a small private parlour.
Walters closed the two doors which led into it and looked at his
principal visitor.

"There!" she exclaimed. "I knew some enquiry would be made. Yes--a Mr.
Marbury took a room here yesterday morning, just after the noon train
got in from Southampton. Number 20 he took. But--he didn't use it last
night. He went out--very late--and he never came back."

Rathbury nodded. Answering a sign from the landlord, he took a chair
and, sitting down, looked at Mrs. Walters.

"What made you think some enquiry would be made, ma'am?" he asked. "Had
you noticed anything?"

Mrs. Walters seemed a little confused by this direct question. Her
husband gave vent to a species of growl.

"Well--why I said that was this," said the landlady. "He happened to
tell us, did Mr. Marbury, that he hadn't been in London for over twenty
years, and couldn't remember anything about it, him, he said, never
having known much about London at any time. And, of course, when he
went out so late and never came back, why, naturally, I thought
something had happened to him, and that there'd be enquiries made."

Mr. and Mrs. Walters received this announcement with proper surprise
and horror, and the landlord suggested a little refreshment to his
visitors. Spargo and Breton declined, on the ground that they had work
to do during the afternoon; Rathbury accepted it, evidently as a matter
of course.

"My respects," he said, lifting his glass. "Well, now, perhaps you'll
just tell me what you know of this man? I may as well tell you, Mr. and
Mrs. Walters, that he was found dead in Middle Temple Lane this
morning, at a quarter to three; that there wasn't anything on him but
his clothes and a scrap of paper which bore this gentleman's name and
address; that this gentleman knows nothing whatever of him, and that I
traced him here because he bought a cap at a West End hatter's
yesterday, and had it sent to your hotel."

"Yes," said Mrs. Walters quickly, "that's so. And he went out in that
cap last night. Well--we don't know much about him. As I said, he came
in here about a quarter past twelve yesterday morning, and booked
Number 20. He had a porter with him that brought a trunk and a
bag--they're in 20 now, of course. He told me that he had stayed at
this house over twenty years ago, on his way to Australia--that, of
course, was long before we took it. And he signed his name in the book
as John Marbury."

Walters fetched in the register and turned the leaf to the previous
day's entries. They all bent over the dead man's writing.

"'John Marbury, Coolumbidgee, New South Wales,'" said Rathbury.
"Ah--now I was wondering if that writing would be the same as that on
the scrap of paper, Mr. Breton. But, you see, it isn't--it's quite
different."

"Quite different," said Breton. He, too, was regarding the handwriting
with great interest. And Rathbury noticed his keen inspection of it,
and asked another question.

"No," said Mrs. Walters. "You didn't--you weren't much in his way.
Well," she continued, "I showed him up to his room. He talked a
bit--said he'd just landed at Southampton from Melbourne."

"Did he mention his ship?" asked Rathbury. "But if he didn't, it
doesn't matter, for we can find out."

"I believe the name's on his things," answered the landlady. "There are
some labels of that sort. Well, he asked for a chop to be cooked for
him at once, as he was going out. He had his chop, and he went out at
exactly one o'clock, saying to me that he expected he'd get lost, as he
didn't know London well at any time, and shouldn't know it at all now.
He went outside there--I saw him--looked about him and walked off
towards Blackfriars way. During the afternoon the cap you spoke of came
for him--from Fiskie's. So, of course, I judged he'd been Piccadilly
way. But he himself never came in until ten o'clock. And then he
brought a gentleman with him."

"Just," replied the landlady. "They went straight up to 20, and I just
caught a mere glimpse of the gentleman as they turned up the stairs. A
tall, well-built gentleman, with a grey beard, very well dressed as far
as I could see, with a top hat and a white silk muffler round his
throat, and carrying an umbrella."

"Well, then, Mr. Marbury rang for some whiskey and soda," continued
Mrs. Walters. "He was particular to have a decanter of whiskey: that,
and a syphon of soda were taken up there. I heard nothing more until
nearly midnight; then the hall-porter told me that the gentleman in 20
had gone out, and had asked him if there was a night-porter--as, of
course, there is. He went out at half-past eleven."

"The other gentleman," answered the landlady, "went out with him. The
hall-porter said they turned towards the station. And that was the
last anybody in this house saw of Mr. Marbury. He certainly never came
back."

"That," observed Rathbury with a quiet smile, "that is quite certain,
ma'am? Well--I suppose we'd better see this Number 20 room, and have a
look at what he left there."

"Everything," said Mrs. Walters, "is just as he left it. Nothing's been
touched."

It seemed to two of the visitors that there was little to touch. On the
dressing-table lay a few ordinary articles of toilet--none of them of
any quality or value: the dead man had evidently been satisfied with
the plain necessities of life. An overcoat hung from a peg: Rathbury,
without ceremony, went through its pockets; just as unceremoniously he
proceeded to examine trunk and bag, and finding both unlocked, he laid
out on the bed every article they contained and examined each
separately and carefully. And he found nothing whereby he could gather
any clue to the dead owner's identity.

"There you are!" he said, making an end of his task. "You see, it's
just the same with these things as with the clothes he had on him.
There are no papers--there's nothing to tell who he was, what he was
after, where he'd come from--though that we may find out in other
ways. But it's not often that a man travels without some clue to his
identity. Beyond the fact that some of this linen was, you see, bought
in Melbourne, we know nothing of him. Yet he must have had papers and
money on him. Did you see anything of his money, now, ma'am?" he asked,
suddenly turning to Mrs. Walters. "Did he pull out his purse in your
presence, now?"

"Yes," answered the landlady, with promptitude. "He came into the bar
for a drink after he'd been up to his room. He pulled out a handful of
gold when he paid for it--a whole handful. There must have been some
thirty to forty sovereigns and half-sovereigns."

"I noticed another thing, too," remarked the landlady. "He was wearing
a very fine gold watch and chain, and had a splendid ring on his left
hand--little finger--gold, with a big diamond in it."

"Yes," said the detective, thoughtfully, "I noticed that he'd worn a
ring, and that it had been a bit tight for him. Well--now there's only
one thing to ask about. Did your chambermaid notice if he left any torn
paper around--tore any letters up, or anything like that?"

But the chambermaid, produced, had not noticed anything of the sort; on
the contrary, the gentleman of Number 20 had left his room very tidy
indeed. So Rathbury intimated that he had no more to ask, and nothing
further to say, just then, and he bade the landlord and landlady of the
Anglo-Orient Hotel good morning, and went away, followed by the two
young men.